Domestic Life
by Are Are
Summary: Hauntsverse story, set post "The Enchanted Life of Thomas Barrow". It's not always perfect magical love for Thomas and Jimmy. Well, okay, maybe it is.


Jimmy was undoubtedly the most enigmatic man Thomas had ever known- virtual _years_ of studying his thought process gave Thomas little more insight than he had to begin with.

Thomas knew some things definitively- important things- but the rest of it was so _fluid_. Jimmy's moods ebbed and flowed as if they were dragged about by the movements of the moon, and his logic was flawed or nonexistent. Sometimes great convictions would spring up into the forefront of Jimmy's consciousness, as if from nowhere, establish themselves firmly for a week, and then vanish, never to be called upon again.

For example: The bright September morning when they had moved into their flat Jimmy had _wept_- not openly, but enough that he couldn't hide it- for only the third time that Thomas could think of. If it had been from joy, Thomas would have had an easier time understanding it- but it _wasn't_ joy- or at least it wasn't _all_ joy.

_I'm sad, I didn't know, _Jimmy thought, and when Thomas looked over, Jimmy was staring at the cartons that filled their new sitting room with teary, red-rimmed eyes. "Are you-" Thomas began, but Jimmy cut him off. "I'm _fine_," he snapped, his tone containing an edge that his thoughts did not.

"What's the matter?" Thomas asked, and went over to him- but Jimmy shrugged off his attempted embrace, and turned on his heel, absconding with his inexplicable grief into the larger of the two bedrooms, which they had decided would be theirs.

Thomas waited, unpacking a few boxes- until Jimmy's _Go away _and _you'd better just leave me alone _and _I'm not crying, so don't you bloody think I am_ thoughts had subsided- and in his head, Jimmy said: _I know you're listening in- which is rude- but come here, won't you?_

Jimmy sat on their new mattress, his face wiped clean of all evidence of tears, and glared at Thomas when he entered the room, as if Jimmy's unhappiness were somehow his fault. "I didn't think I'd miss it," Jimmy said, gesturing aimlessly around the room, until Thomas came to sit next to him.

"Miss what?" Thomas asked.

"Downton. All that-" Jimmy said, leaning into Thomas's shoulder. "I didn't know I was so _sentimental_ about it. I _hated_ it there sometimes, really. I did."

Thomas nodded agreement. "It's normal to feel two ways about it," Thomas said, and Jimmy shrugged against him. "I suppose," he said. "I'll miss it but I'd miss _this _more."

"We've only just gotten here," Thomas said.

"I know," Jimmy said. _But that hardly changes how I feel_.

"Mm," Thomas said. "That's true. A lack of empirical evidence hasn't ever swayed you before."

Still Jimmy poured into Thomas's head a wistful flash of images- chairs that moved of their own accord, a string of trees that bloomed with flowers of the most vivid crimson color, their room with their two cots pressed flush together, making a _real_-sized bed - and other things- the main hall decked out for dancing, glimpses of many evenings- until Thomas laughed, and ruffled his hair.

There were other instances, too- like the strange fuss that Jimmy had put up about where they should have the grandfather clock. It had been left by the movers in the sitting room of the new flat- which made sense, obviously- but Jimmy had paced around the clock restlessly on the second day they'd lived there, assessing it from all sides. "Let's move this into the bedroom," Jimmy said, when Thomas looked at him questioningly.

"Why?" Thomas asked- searching Jimmy's head for some chain of reasoning that led to such an unreasonable desire.

"It's just cluttering up everything out here," Jimmy said, and Thomas raised an eyebrow. "It's meant for a sitting room," Thomas said, and Jimmy rubbed one hand along the back of his neck, his thoughts unguarded for a moment, giving Thomas a temporary flash of anxiety that was Jimmy's and not his own.  
"I just want it in the bedroom, alright," Jimmy said, shutting his eyes for an instant- and, in that instant, Thomas could read the script of his thoughts.

"You really think you need the clock _and_ the metronome _and_ me or else you won't be able to go to sleep?" Thomas asked, and Jimmy shook his head _no_ in immediate denial.

"_No_," Jimmy said, his tone supremely annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous. Anyways we can get another clock for in _here_, if you want. We'll have enough money for it eventually, I've _seen_ how nice _Fancy's_ flat is. Well. We need to put aside money so I can have a piano first, or else I'll go mad. But then the clock."

They moved the clock into the bedroom, and Thomas hardly missed the relief in the line of Jimmy's shoulders when the job was done, or how contented the string of his thoughts became- as regular as the tick of a metronome. "Perfect," Jimmy had declared, and Thomas had wondered at the myriad idiosyncrasies that could make up another person, and how those very quirks and insecurities and faults of logic and nobler aspirations could make them into a thing of beauty, a thing you loved.

The only compromise that Thomas had really _ever_ gotten Jimmy to make with him was on the subject of his employment. Thomas had agreed he would take the job and the money and freedom that came with it, but only on one condition: that Jimmy not discuss his work. Jimmy had fought him, calling it absurd and calling _Thomas_ absurd, but Thomas had stood his ground firmly, and made no indication that he would _ever_ leave Downton until it was agreed to. Eventually Jimmy, eager for them to get on with it, had made vague, insincere promises- but of course Thomas could _tell_ they were insincere, and he had said so- until Jimmy was so desperate that he had actually agreed to Thomas's terms. And meant it. Still Thomas could often hear Jimmy's mutinous thoughts: _How was work today? Don't want to tell me, hmm. Did you have a good time?_ _See anything interesting?_

But Thomas could ignore _thoughts_, even Jimmy's- or, if Jimmy's unspoken questions became too persistent- Thomas would fix him with a steely cold stare, their eyes locking in a battle of wills- until Jimmy dropped his gaze and moved on to other subjects. It was the one battle Jimmy would retreat from, and Thomas knew that was only because Jimmy felt honor-bound to his _promise_ not to bring it up. That was fine- if guilt was what it took for Thomas not to have to _hear_ about it or discuss it, so be it. Because Thomas really could not bear discussing it. The topic was mortifying.

Jimmy's occupation was a safer subject- Jimmy loved _his _work, and since Thomas now had the freedom to set his own hours they spent about three days every week doing nothing but going to the pictures, where Jimmy would study the screen with wide-eyed absorption. He had come into his line of employment almost by accident- all due to his hatred of a picture they saw in Ripon.

Jimmy had been in one of his unpleasant moods- Thomas could never, even with his added insight, determine what exactly caused them, beyond the general malaise that sometimes seemed to wrap around Jimmy like a shroud. However Jimmy, in his ongoing quest to become more ethical- for reasons he had only ever half-articulated to Thomas- did not often take out his fits of ill temper on _people_- well, not on Thomas, and rarely on anyone else. That evening it had been _The Ten Commandments- _the film, not the tenets of the bible- which had been the target of Jimmy's hostility.

"That was so bloody _awful_," Jimmy said, when they were leaving. "That constant pressing organ music like a saw against my skull. I feel like _I've_ been reduced to organs."

"I just can't believe we gave that monstrosity _two_ or more hours of our lives," Jimmy continued, when they were on the bus. Jimmy sat looking up at Thomas as if expecting agreement, keeping their legs pressed flush together. Thomas had enough tact to not inform Jimmy he had- in his thoughts, at least- seemed delighted with the picture while they were watching it. Thomas had sat next to Jimmy in the balcony of the dark theatre while Jimmy surreptitiously clutched his hand, squeezing it tighter every time a scene of grand, sweeping action played out before them.

The night had been mild and brightly-lit with stars, and so they had walked home leisurely, Jimmy complaining all the while. "And the second half- _more_ than half- with that awful preachy _treacle_-"

The moon was brilliant, and Thomas considered it for a moment. They were utterly alone, and so he looped one arm around Jimmy's shoulders. "God, even the _title_ cards were bad," Jimmy said, and glanced over at Thomas. "Are you even listening to me at all?"

"Perhaps you should put it in writing if you feel so strongly about it," Thomas said, and Jimmy pinched his side. "Fine, I will," Jimmy retorted, loftily, "and you'll be sorry at my eloquence, sorry you didn't _agree_ with me."

"Mm, I always am," Thomas said, and Jimmy had stopped on the dirt road, and turned, to kiss him.

When they made it back to Downton the servant's hall was empty save for Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes and their respective cups of tea. "Good evening," Mrs. Hughes said, but at the sight of Carson they had not lingered, instead turning their heels towards the men's hall. "They seem to have taken our spot," Jimmy whispered to Thomas on the stairs, and Thomas nodded sagely. "That's what you're reduced to when you don't have your own bedroom," Thomas said, opening their door, and motioning Jimmy in.

The strange part was that once they were in for the evening Jimmy really _did_ put it in writing- in a scathing- if badly punctuated- critique that made Thomas laugh aloud. "Cecil B. De_Swill_, I love that," Thomas said, and Jimmy had shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. "I'm trying to channel my energies into, ah, _pursuits_, or something," Jimmy said- but after he had read the note Jimmy threw it in the wastebasket, as if it had been meant only for Thomas.

Some impulse made Thomas retrieve the funny little essay the next day, during an hour when Jimmy was busy and he was not- and made him further re-copy it in his rather finer script, adding punctuation when necessary. Thomas had paused at the end and added _'James Kent'_, signing the 'J' with an emphatic loop that he had observed in Jimmy's own signature, and mailed it out to _The Sketch_.

They had published the review in the next Friday's paper, and Jimmy had almost kissed Thomas right in front of everyone at breakfast, causing a rather uncomfortable scene. "I'm famous, now," Jimmy told Thomas repeatedly throughout the next day. "I'm practically famous."

"Just a heartbeat away," Thomas said, but Jimmy only laughed, and thought, _I am going to be so famous for my rapier wit._

"That'd be an odd thing for you to get famous on," Thomas said, and leaned neatly to the left, dodging Jimmy's attempts to shove him.

But then Jimmy was, strangely, right. Over a period of months Jimmy sent in more reviews, all of them negative in tone, and each one appeared in print. It became known in the house that he was the selfsame James Kent responsible for the critiques. Lady Edith's lover cornered Jimmy after some dinner and asked him if he wouldn't do a regular article.

Now that they lived in London Jimmy wrote two reviews a week, and panned everything that didn't have Lon Chaney or swashbucklers in it. "You know people don't know who you are," Thomas said, one night, as he ran through Jimmy's article with a pen, correcting it. Jimmy was sitting at the new piano with his metronome, playing a string of different melodies without any real intent. "You criticize all the movies everybody likes. You'll be reviled as an old snob or something."

"I know, _reviled_," Jimmy said, and played a triumphant string of notes on the piano. "Everyone will hate my name."

"If that's what you want, darling," Thomas said, to make Jimmy laugh.

Jimmy was peculiar about love, too. In their own apartment, where they posed as cousins and had two bedrooms and a feasible life story, they also had freedom. Thomas was not overly concerned- he had conducted silent mental interviews of his own with each landlord who had shown him a flat- and his favorite flat had also belonged to his favorite landlord- or, in this case, land_lady_. Jimmy had stubbornly held out for a certain place in Soho Square- until Thomas had treated Jimmy to a glimpse into the mind of the landlord of that particular building. After that Jimmy had commanded Thomas to use his 'magical powers' to find them the best place. Thomas didn't know about _magical_ _powers_, but he'd done what Jimmy said- and so they ended up in a place in Fitzrovia, situated over a bakery which was named- stupidly- 'Crème de la Crème'.

In the early _early_ mornings the bakers would begin their work downstairs, and by the time Thomas hauled himself out of bed the whole flat smelled of a dozen kinds of pastry and freshly-baked bread. Jimmy would go down to the Crème and bring up baguettes- he almost always woke before Thomas- and they would eat in the small dim kitchen, which had red wallpaper and dark wood and was Thomas's favorite room.

They had heavy draperies over all the windows- so as to better protect their privacy- and Jimmy liked to draw them closed and walk through the rooms of the flat without any clothes on. "It's _my_ flat, and if I want to walk around starkers, I _will_," Jimmy would say, and then kiss Thomas's face, and take his nude self just out of the reach of Thomas's grasping hands. Thomas could _feel_, on an intellectual level, the basic _contriteness _of Jimmy's whimsy- but also that it was sincere- and also that it was a way to make sure he occupied Thomas's attention. And that- the eroticism of watching Jimmy play the piano while undressed, or lay on the sofa naked, shuffling his cards- brought Thomas back to the subject of love.

In their own home certain things were possible that had not been possible before- even with the incredible amount of leniency they had been granted at Downton. And Jimmy _was_ peculiar about love- the things he wanted were not the things that any of Thomas's other lovers had wanted. Jimmy seemed, at times, almost to forget the ultimate goal of intimacy. He enjoyed laying with Thomas on the bed for long hours, kissing as if there were nothing more to do- until they were both red faced and gasping, and then Jimmy would demand _more, now, immediately_- in his thoughts or with his words- as if he had only just remembered that the aching spell of lust could be broken by release.

Jimmy seemed to think he had _invented_ certain acts of love, too- though Thomas hadn't done everything under the sun, he had at least heard of most things- but Jimmy was strangely naive. Jimmy would come up with _something_ they hadn't tried before and insist upon its happening- and then, always at the last instant, Jimmy would have a flash of- _anxiety_, or something- and almost not go through with it. Bravado and fear and ultimately love- it was a pattern that Thomas could, he found, live with- now that he could _sense_ its happening.

"I always feel so good when you do that," Jimmy had mumbled one evening not long after they'd moved to London. He lay back on the mattress, with Thomas collapsed atop him, both of them gasping.

"When I..." Thomas said, not sure if he meant what they had done in general or some more specific portion of it.

"Mm. When you put your tongue in me," Jimmy elaborated, in a tone which indicated that he did not mean when Thomas put his tongue in Jimmy's mouth, or even his _ear_.

Thomas laughed hoarsely. "You mean that thing you _begged_ me about forever and then nearly broke my nose for, the first time I-"

"I didn't _beg_," Jimmy said. "I never _beg_. I make requests, that's all."

"Requests," Thomas said. "Of course."

Jimmy determined after some experimentation that his favorite position for love was sitting in Thomas's lap. He would ease slowly down onto Thomas, his face a swirl of conflicting expressions- concentrated effort and effortless happiness, and other things too numerous to mention- and Thomas would grit his teeth and keep as much composure as he could. It was always the same: when Jimmy had sat all the way down onto him, Thomas would hold himself still, resisting the urge to move his hips- and Jimmy would take ragged breaths for a long moment, and put his forehead as close to Thomas's forehead as he could manage- and then he would slip Thomas's corded necklace off of his neck and toss it to the side, and the pleasure would become too much to bear.

Outside of the bedroom they picked piecemeal at the domestic affairs. Despite his previous field of employment Jimmy did not take well to cleaning. Jimmy did make an effort to learn how to cook- though Thomas, equally inexperienced, picked up on it quicker than he did. Jimmy was always receiving letters from Alfred that contained recipes, and were headlined with Alfred's attempts at wit: scrawled lines like _'HOW TO BE A PROPER WIFE'_ with instructions underneath for mutton curry or rillettes or even hot cross buns.

Of course it was not as if they didn't argue- they argued all the time, about everything_._ They argued, but they never _fought_- it was a small but distinct difference. The only fight they had ever had was the _first_ fight- the fight that had left Thomas miserable and nearly jobless, the fight that had prompted Jimmy to be cold to him for a year- the fight that had been the end and the beginning of everything.

Perhaps that was why, when the second fight between them finally came, it was so _intense._

* * *

Thomas was a coward who life had forced time and time again to be brave. This Jimmy determined. Thomas could commit to just about _anything_ in the moment, but if he wasn't _forced_ he would never stand up. Intellectually he was hiding in a corner about his whole _employment_ thing- and, after three months of London living, Thomas showed no inclination to _ever_ discuss it.

"It hurts me that you won't talk to me about what you do all day," Jimmy told him. He _meant_ it, too- and he hoped the sincerity of it would spur Thomas into being less closemouthed- but Thomas had only rolled his eyes, and said: "It would hurt me _worse_ to talk about it."

_Fine, then_, Jimmy thought. _If it's war you want, it's war you'll get._

He kept the larger parts of his plan in the back of his head, where such thoughts would hopefully be obscured from Thomas's telepathy. But he did _have_ a plan- he had noticed, over the past few years, how fastidious Thomas could be. To the extent of lucidrousness. To the point of _Carson_-ness. Thomas cleaned up around their flat ceaselessly- it was the first thing he would do when he came home in the evenings and the last thing he would do before they went to bed- absently wander around, touching things and putting objects into their proper places.

So Jimmy decided that he would take advantage of Thomas's quirk for tidiness. _If it bothers you, why, that's just what I owe you,_ Jimmy thought. _I did tell you how you hurt me, and I didn't _like_ telling you, and still you dismissed me. Because you're too twisted up to even talk about your stupid job._

Sometimes Thomas could be so ridiculously self-absorbed. Jimmy pondered this self-absorption over drinks with Gregson in his editor's office. Gregson and Lady Edith were the only people in London who knew what Thomas _really_ did for a living, and they only knew because Jimmy had, in a moment of weakness, told them all about it. At Downton nobody knew besides O'Brien- they all thought Thomas had been offered a position as butler to a wealthy European family.

"I'm really very put out about it," Jimmy said, to Gregson. "I asked him if we couldn't have dinner with you and Edith at the Fig- and he said _no,_ because he doesn't want you to see him in the bloody tent with the bloody medium."

"He can't really bar us from a _club_," Gregson said, laughing. "Perhaps we'll come one weekend on a _whim_."

"And just happen to sit with us," Jimmy said, grinning. "Good." He stared off for a moment into space. Thomas didn't even allow him _into_ the tent when they went to the Fig- and if Jimmy _did_ walk in, as he had, many times, Thomas would simply rise from his seat and accompany Jimmy out onto the dancefloor, effectively cutting off Jimmy's chance to witness _anything._

"I'm still so _angry_, though," Jimmy said, and Gregson nodded. "Good. Put it into your reviews. People love to hate you."

"I love to hate them too, Mike," Jimmy said- he was being serious, but for some reason it made Gregson laugh.

Slowly Jimmy became more and more untidy. He started a project- to clip every one of his reviews from _ever_, in the intention of framing them and hanging them on the wall- and then he abandoned the project utterly, leaving frames and newspapers and shreds of paper and matting to gather dust in a large pile on the floor under the piano. He left half-eaten plates of food in every room, including the washroom. He smoked cigarettes just so that he could leave ashtrays overflowing. The only room that was safe from Jimmy's intentions was the bedroom.

_I'm doing the right thing,_ Jimmy assured himself, as he catalogued his actions, making sure that he was doing his bit to straighten up and fly right. _I'm helping him to be more comfortable with who he is, and what he does. And if I get what I want in the long run, well, that's just a side-benefit._

He could see Thomas's growing frustration with his slovenly habits, but it was weeks before Thomas actually said anything about it. "Taking your supper in the lavatory now?" Thomas asked, with a slight edge to his tone, one evening. Jimmy had indeed taken his supper in the bathroom, and had a lovely bath at the same time- and he had made sure to leave an awful mess in his wake.

"It's _my_ house as well," Jimmy said, shrugging. "I'll eat wherever I like."

"Yes," Thomas said, nodding agreement. "But-" he paused, gritting his teeth. "Couldn't you just-"

"Just _what_?" Jimmy asked, trying to keep amusement off of his face and out of his thoughts.

"Just clean up after yourself a bit," Thomas muttered, in an undertone.

"Make me," Jimmy retorted, and Thomas's eyes widened in surprise at Jimmy's thoughts. "This is about my _job_," Thomas hissed, in realization. "That's why you've-"

"That's _right_," Jimmy said, and took the plate from Thomas's hand- and then turned his wrist, casually emptying the rest of his cornish pasty onto the kitchen floor.

Thomas took a breath, looking shocked, as if Jimmy had done something truly unacceptable. For a moment they were stalemated. "Pick that up," Thomas said, his jaw tight, meeting Jimmy's eyes dangerously, and Jimmy felt a little thrill that made his heart skip a beat. "No," Jimmy answered, making his expression as steely as Thomas's was. _Tell me about your day,_ Jimmy thought,_ and I'll clean this place from top to bottom._

"I will not," Thomas said, looking outraged.

"Yeah, doesn't feel so swell to be blackmailed, does it?" Jimmy snapped, and Thomas's eyes widened again- but he didn't reply- instead he turned on his heel and stormed into the bedroom.

Jimmy took a seat at the piano and played Liszt- Liszt, who was angry and dissonant and perfect for him to work out his frustrations with- and he pointedly ignored Thomas, who eventually came out of the bedroom, and began, silently, to straighten up the apartment.

They didn't speak at _all_ for the rest of the night, and when Jimmy finally followed Thomas to bed, Thomas lay turned away from him. "Don't do that," Jimmy said, grasping the other man's shoulder and shaking him.

"Leave me alone," Thomas said, flatly, but Jimmy shook him more insistently. "I _mean_ it, Thomas," Jimmy said, feeling a pain in his chest. "Don't _do_ that. That's out _there_, but in here we-" he paused, searching for a way to articulate his feelings on the subject. "I- I never make a mess in _here_, do I?" Jimmy asked, a touch anxiously. "This is besides all that. Even if we're angry with one another."

For a wrenching moment he thought it wouldn't work- but then Thomas slowly turned over, and met Jimmy's eyes. "I'm still mad at you," Thomas said, and Jimmy smiled with relief. "I'm mad at you, too, you stupid stubborn arse," Jimmy said, and kissed Thomas's mouth, and let Thomas press him down sweetly, against the mattress.

"Please don't make a mess in here today," Thomas said the next morning, when they were having breakfast. "Just a weekend truce. I've got it perfectly in order, and O'Brien is coming the day after tomorrow."

"Ugh, can't she stay in a _hotel_?" Jimmy groused, although he had helped Thomas to get the second bedroom ready for her.

"I've tolerated Alfred for you," Thomas reminded him. "I tolerate _Gregson_ for you. You can do it for twenty-four hours." Thomas lit a cigarette. "I mean it, Jimmy," he said, very seriously.

"Let me come visit you at work, then," Jimmy asked, brashly trying to institute a compromise.

"_NO_," Thomas said, emphatically, blowing out a lungful of smoke with excess irritation.

"Y'know _I _tolerate a _lot_ already," Jimmy said. "Like I do what you say. I _never_ walk anywhere after dark- I always take the damned _taxis_ like you insist upon- and I don't _gamble_ without you, and I-"

"I have perfectly valid reasons," Thomas said, through his teeth.

"I have perfectly valid reasons _too_," Jimmy shot back. "It makes me _sad_ that you keep a part of your _life_ away from me. We're more than bloody _married_, and yet you're so pigheaded that you-"

Thomas let out a string of sharp little laughs, grinding out his cigarette violently in the ashtray. "I'm pigheaded," Thomas said, half to himself, getting his coat. "_I'm_ pigheaded. Me. That's rich, Jimmy, it really is."

"I don't take your meaning," Jimmy said, rising from his chair, his body language openly hostile. He felt hot flashes of rage flicker through his head at the tone Thomas was taking with him.

"I will _never_ let you come to see me at work, and I will _never_ talk about it," Thomas bit out- Jimmy rarely saw Thomas really angry, but Thomas was _livid_ now, and his anger only incensed Jimmy further. _What right do you have?_ Jimmy thought, taking a step forward. _What _right _do you have?_

"I have every right. It's my life and my situation. And as for sharing details with _you-_ I don't trust you enough," Thomas said, nastily, and slammed the door on his way out.

_You're a liar_, Jimmy thought. _You _trust _me, you're just afraid. Embarrassed. Some stupid thing. _His hands had been clenched into fists, but by slow degrees his anger turned to sadness, and he raised his hands to his face unhappily.

"I'll make you understand that I love you no matter _what_," Jimmy said aloud, to the empty flat. Misery settled over him like a cloud, for a moment- making his temples and the muscles of his right side ache in sympathy. But then another plan occurred to him- a _daring_ plan- and he felt a bit better, and set about getting dressed.

Jimmy whistled to himself as he traipsed down Gerrard Street. Many times in the past few months he had been tempted to make the trip to Soho on any given day, and walk the road until he came to the address of the building where Thomas worked. Of course Thomas had no idea that Jimmy _knew_ the address of Madame Nicodème's parlor- he had stolen a piece of mail from the medium's cluttered desk on one of the several occasions they'd visited her flat, and then used all of his strength of mind to hide what he had done from the telepaths in the room. Some days it had been a great struggle _not_ to go down and visit Thomas- but he had felt obligated- or _chained_, really- chained to the promise he had made not to do any such thing.

_But if you're going to be an awful bastard, I don't feel guilty at all,_ Jimmy thought, and began to hum a cheery tune, counting down the numbers on the storefronts until he came to 42 A.

It was a good-sized shop, with dark blue curtains covering the windows, and Jimmy paused outside of it, to read the hand-lettered sign:

_FORTUNES TOLD_

_TEA LEAVES READ_

_TAROT CARD READINGS_

_AND OTHER SERVICES PERFORMED BY_

_MADAME NICODÈME AND MONSIEUR BARREAUX_

And below that, in smaller letters:

_No appt. required! _

Jimmy stared at the sign for a moment. _Monsieur Barre-_ "Oh," Jimmy said, aloud, as he got it- "Oh, my lord," he said, and laughed, putting a bit of his uneasiness into the laugh. _He's going to kill me._ It didn't matter. Jimmy turned the handle and went inside.

The first thing that he saw, when his eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside, were the figures of Madame Nicodème and Miss Abernathy sitting behind a desk, taking luncheon together.

"Oh, _Jimmy!_" The Madame squeaked, leaping to her feet when she saw him- and rushed over, to kiss his cheek. "Good afternoon to you both," Jimmy said, returning her kiss gravely, and she tilted her head to the side, studying him.

"But I am afraid that your coming here has something to do with the poor temper Thomas has been in today," the medium said, pushing up the gaudy turban she wore. Jimmy nodded. "He won't be pleased I've come," Jimmy replied.

"_Well_..." the medium said, consideringly. "Perhaps you shouldn't-"

"You go through," Miss Abernathy said, startling Jimmy, who turned to look at her.

"You don't think so?" Madame Nicodème asked, looking at Miss Abernathy's face. "Really?"

"He needs to get over it," Miss Abernathy said, flatly, and went back to her food.

"You're right, of course," the Madame said, and pointed at a set of velvet curtains that obscured a hallway. "He's down there. In the room with the gold foil-paper on the door. He's with a _customer_, though!"

"All the better," Jimmy said, feeling his pulse kick up- and he straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and walked down the hall.

He paused at the golden door, and put his fingers to the knob, his nerves jittery. Inside the room he could hear Thomas's voice- but he couldn't make out his words, not _exactly_- and he wondered how Thomas could be unaware of his presence. _He should have sensed me ages ago,_ Jimmy thought. _Perhaps he's too involved._

Without preamble Jimmy swung open the door, and stared at Thomas. He sat at a round table in the middle of the room, with candles burning all around him- his fingers pressed against a luminous crystal ball, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wore a black cloak the like of which Jimmy had never seen- it was high-collared, and made him look like Count Dracula. A jowly older man sat across from him, clutching a gold locket in his square hands, and he turned to look at Jimmy's intrusion.

Thomas, his eyes glowing with the reflected light of the crystal ball, seemed so intent upon his task that for a moment _longer_ he still did not notice Jimmy- but then suddenly he snapped out of his trance, and lifted his chin sharply in Jimmy's direction, his expression going slack with astonishment. Immediately Thomas flushed crimson, and rose to his feet. "Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Johnstone," he said, smoothly, and walked right past Jimmy, out into the hall. Jimmy nodded courteously at Mr. Johnstone the Jowls, and followed Thomas, trying not to betray his anxiety.

Thomas was facing him, his mouth a tight line. _"What_ are you doing here?" Thomas asked, his voice dark, and then bent his head, running his hands through his own hair.

"I wanted to-"

"I don't _bloody_ care! I don't _want_ you here!" Thomas said. He was almost shouting. Jimmy could not recall another instance when Thomas had ever raised his voice to him in such a fashion.

"I-" Jimmy said, grasping for anything that he could say to salvage the situation. Thomas was _very_ angry- he advanced on Jimmy, and Jimmy held his ground, but raised his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm _sorry_, but you don't _need_ to feel badly- I think it's all _fascinating_, you know-"

"Yes, everything is bloody fascinating and wonderful when Jimmy Kent says it is!" Thomas barked, his voice getting louder and louder until he was yelling. "Everything is just so _interesting_! This world and everything in it exists for your _amusement_, didn't you know?" Still his face was red, and Jimmy tried to hold on to a shred of sympathy at how upset Thomas must feel- but he found it was _difficult_, with Thomas being so _rude_ to him-

"Oh untwist your britches, won't you?" Jimmy snapped, baring his teeth at Thomas. "I'm not here to hold your bloody _hand_! Just get over yourself-" they were inches away from one another now, and Jimmy had the urge to reach out and push Thomas over, or sock him, or kiss him roughly.

"Get out of here," Thomas said. He had stopped yelling abruptly, and now his voice was flat, and frigid. "I don't want to see your face. I don't want to hear your _thoughts_."

"I'm going, I'm going, you _awful_- you _lousy_-" But Thomas turned on his heel, and stormed back into the room from whence he had come- and Jimmy heard the small noise of the door locking. For a beat Jimmy stood in the hall alone, his heart pounding in his ears, his throat tight- and then he walked quickly back down the hall and out the front doors, not pausing when he heard Madame Nicodème calling after him. "I'm sorry Fancy, but I have to go," Jimmy said, tightly, without looking at her, and he walked out on to the street. _I hate him, I bloody _hate_ him,_ Jimmy thought, and brought his right hand up, feeling an old and sudden twinge in his side, to touch the _Strongheart_ cards that he always kept in his jacket pocket.

Jimmy stopped at the Crème before he went upstairs, and persuaded Justine, the shopgirl, to give him a bagful of flour. In the door of the apartment Jimmy paused, surveying the tidy space. _I'll bloody show you,_ Jimmy thought, and walked in, casually knocking all of the mail off of their endtable as he passed. The letter opener clattered to the floor. Jimmy spun around, his movements light but his expression grim- and repeated this process with _every_ table in every room of the apartment- excluding their own bedroom.

"Whoops," Jimmy said, knocking all the books from the bookshelf onto the floor.

"Oh, beg _pardon_," Jimmy said, neatly sweeping out the contents of the cabinets, so that spices rained down upon the kitchen counters.

"Don't! Bloody! Mind! _Me!_" Jimmy shouted, knocking over chairs- he swept into the sitting room, holding his bag of flour aloft- and then he heard the click of the doorhandle.

_Oh, shite_, Jimmy thought, for a second- but then he squared his shoulders and faced the door, until he saw Thomas, who walked towards him slowly, looking around at the havoc Jimmy had wrought upon the apartment.

"What are you doing," Thomas said, his voice so abnormally low in pitch that it sounded like he was growling. Jimmy felt the hair on his arms stand up. _Don't you try to intimidate me,_ he thought. "Whatever I _want,_" Jimmy said, raising his voice. "You know something about yourself?" he went on, "You _want_ to know something about yourself? You're a bloody _coward_," Jimmy ranted, scarcely pausing for breath. "You _still _think I'm going to see you acting in some fashion that's in _opposition _to how I _think_ of you and then not _love_ you anymore, so you run away from the possibility of it- just like you ran away from the _war_ and from your _gift_ and-"

But his cutting words did not have their intended effect- Thomas, though his lips had gone quite white at Jimmy's words, was laughing mirthlessly.

"_I'm_ a coward? _I'm _a coward?" Thomas asked, his lips curling into a sneer. "_You're_ the coward. You're a _grown_ man and yet you're so afraid of what you want that we have to have the world arranged just _so _for you-" He took a step towards Jimmy, and Jimmy took a step back, his jaw hanging slack.

"-With your _bloody_ metronome and my clock lodged safely in the bedroom, because you're so _nervous_ all the time about how you want me to bloody _bugger_ you-"

"You shut your _mouth_," Jimmy snapped, and upended the flour bag all over the room, waving his hands in a wild arc- the flour covered his piano, and the sofa, and the carpets, and the books that lay like fallen soldiers on the ground, and white clouds of it obscured his vision for a moment- and then he dropped the bag and grabbed his metronome from where he had last left it, atop the piano- and he threw it, without thinking, at Thomas's chest-

But the metronome did not strike Thomas- instead it _slowed down_, moving through the air at a snails' pace- and Thomas grabbed it from the air, and tossed it onto the sofa.

"That's _cheating_," Jimmy said, and closed the space between them, not knowing what he planned to do, and grabbed Thomas's forearms roughly.

"Get _off_ me," Thomas said, raggedly, and Jimmy dug his fingers in, tightly enough to bruise. They grappled together, panting, and Thomas wrestled Jimmy's arms off of him, shoving him away. Jimmy stumbled back, winded.

"You want to hear about my _job_, is that it?" Thomas asked, and Jimmy looked up- Thomas's breathless voice had taken on a conversational tone, but his eyes were wild. He came to stand in front of Jimmy, and reached a hand out. "Let me tell you about my _job_."

"I- ah- _what_?" Jimmy asked, bewildered.

"My job," Thomas said, and cupped his gloved hand between Jimmy's legs. "_Oh_," Jimmy said, involuntarily- he hadn't known that he was hard until Thomas touched him.

"I go to my job and I read tea leaves," Thomas said. A band of color burned along his cheekbones, and Jimmy felt his stomach turn in slow somersaults. Thomas squeezed his hand around Jimmy's erection for a moment, and Jimmy gasped at the way it felt- like a fire that would rage out of control, devouring him. His heart, which had only just begun to slow, started to hammer again relentlessly in his ears.

"And I go to my job and I look in to the spirit world. Yes, the _spirit_ world," Thomas went on. He brought his hand away from Jimmy's trousers, making him nearly moan at the sudden lack of sensation, and then he pushed Jimmy's jacket off of his shoulders.

"And I go to my job and I read people's minds. And I do all manner of strange things," Thomas said, throwing Jimmy's tie aside and unbuttoning his shirt.

"I exorcised a _carousel_ last week, that was fun," Thomas whispered, bringing his lips to Jimmy's ear, and Jimmy shivered. "I'm glad you-"

"Be quiet," Thomas said. "I can hear you well enough." His deft fingers began to work on Jimmy's belt, and he pushed Jimmy's trousers down.

"Oh, yes?" Jimmy asked, trying to sound unaffected. "And what do I think, then?"

"That you want me inside of you," Thomas said without inflection, and pushed him down onto the floor. Jimmy landed on his back, his knees coming up- and Thomas sank down between his knees, stripping off his own clothes. Jimmy, from where he lay, caught a glimpse of Thomas's rock-hard erection, which tilted upwards from the dark hair between his legs, looking as though it must be painful.

"Mmph," Jimmy said, as Thomas pressed kisses- kisses with an edge of _teeth_ to them- across his abdomen. Thomas's lips were achingly soft, and swept along his skin, intermingled with the pain of his bites. "God, _yes,"_ Jimmy said, without meaning to.

"Be _quiet_," Thomas said, and stuck two of his fingers in Jimmy's mouth. Jimmy bit down, and Thomas stifled a groan, and pulled his hand away. "Yes," Thomas said, and reached down- and pushed his fingers inside of Jimmy, moving his hand rapidly, so that Jimmy made a sound without meaning to, and stuffed a fist against his own mouth to stifle the noise.

"_Ah_, god," Jimmy said, into his fist- and above him Thomas pulled the necklace from round his own neck, and threw it across the room. "_Oh_," Thomas said, as soon as he had done- and the line of color on his face got brighter- and his eyes, if possible, got darker. Jimmy felt pinned by Thomas's hand inside of him, holding him down against the carpet- he couldn't move even if he wanted to, save for the helpless rotation of his hips as Thomas pressed into him over and over again. His pulse was throbbing in his cock, and he reached up his own hand to grasp at it, to touch it, to do anything for some release-

"No," Thomas muttered, knocking his hand away, and Jimmy hissed at him in frustration. "Come on," he said, cajolingly, his voice breaking on every word he uttered, and his pushed his hips forward sharply- the sensation of it making both him and Thomas moan.

"Please," Jimmy begged, and Thomas fumbled around with his free hand, reaching for a jar of petrol jelly that wasn't even in the same room as them. "I'll be _right_ back," Thomas said, but Jimmy grabbed him. "No," Jimmy said, pleadingly, but Thomas only shook his head, and got unsteadily to his feet. For a moment Jimmy was alone in the room, with nothing but the painfully acute arousal he felt to keep him company- and then, just went he began to feel anxious over his vulnerability- over his _wantonness_ as he lay nude the floor- Thomas returned, and came to lay over him, running his hands through Jimmy's hair. "I'm sorry I said that," Thomas said, softly, and kissed Jimmy's lips. "I love that about you. I love you."

"Mmm, of course you do, now _do_ it already," Jimmy said, and Thomas rubbed the contents of the jar over his own hardon, his face tightening with pleasure as he did it.

"Yes, do it," Jimmy said, aware of the insistence of his voice- but he didn't _care_ how he bloody sounded, _couldn't_ care, because he wanted it so much-

"I am," Thomas said, tersely- and Jimmy craned his neck up, watching Thomas take himself in hand, and move over him. Jimmy braced himself up on his forearms, his knees bent, and watched as Thomas pressed into him, feeling lightheaded at the dual forces of _watching_ and _feeling_.

_Just try to say I'm not brave now,_ Jimmy thought. "_Ah_, oh, _yes-_" he said. "I-" _God that feels so good Thomas do it hard, please, I want it I- oh, god-_

"I want it I- _oh_, god," Thomas said, brokenly, his mouth forming the sounds of Jimmy's thoughts. Thomas tried to keep his eyes open, so that he could meet Jimmy's gaze- Jimmy could _see_ him trying- but he could not manage it, they kept falling shut. His mouth was turned down in a expression of effort, and he slid back and forth slowly inside of Jimmy, making him moan.

_"Ah_, god yes just like that, _ah,_ god yes just like that-" Jimmy said, gasping each time Thomas pushed all the way into him, and exhaling raggedly each time his thrusts took him back out again.

"_Ah_," Thomas said, and tilted his hips against Jimmy's body so that he hit _that_ spot. "_Oh_," Jimmy gasped, and Thomas's eyes flew wide open- "_yes there yes _there _oh_-"

"That feels right, yes," Thomas said, raggedly, "yes, I feel it- _ah-_ yes please-"

_I love you, Thomas, I love you,_ Jimmy thought, but the only sounds he could make were wordless cries, and he grabbed Thomas's forearms, trying to get _closer_ to him-

"Mmm," Thomas said, through his teeth- "_Yes-"_

"Are you going- _ah_- are y-you going t-to _come_ because I can't- _ah_- if you keep doing that I'm going to-"

"No," Thomas said, his eyes falling shut again- "I can't- _ah-_ I can't-"

"Oh yes please_oh_ harder- yes I- _ah-"_ Jimmy said, and clenched his muscles as tightly as his could around Thomas's hardness, the feeling sending white-hot sparks flickering through his back and his stomach and his own erection- _"Ah,"_ He said, in a drawn-out gasp- and above him Thomas shuddered, pushing into him deeply, _all_ the way, so deeply it hurt- and then coming with a low moan- and the shudders of Thomas's orgasm, and Thomas's hand suddenly squeezing the head of his penis made Jimmy cry out, his vision blacking out, and the world and eveything going away- and then when he thought that he would _die_, that he couldn't be kept on this knife edge of pleasure any longer- Thomas's hand stroked up and down the length of his shaft, squeezing it gently, and rubbing his fingers against the head- and that was all it took-

"_Ahhh-_" Jimmy moaned, falling back against the floor, and he came, blood roaring in his ears and tears on his cheeks. "Ah. Hah. _God._"

They breathed together for a while, and then Thomas's unsoiled hand was touching Jimmy's tear-streaked face. "Going soft, are you?" Thomas asked.

"Yes," Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows, which were the only parts of his body he could manage to move. "Literally _and _figuratively." Thomas laughed against his neck, and Jimmy wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders.

"I liked your Nosferatu cape," Jimmy said, after a while, and Thomas pushed his face to the side. "Quiet, you."

"I'm coming to your work all the _time_, now," Jimmy said. "I hope you realize that."

Thomas groaned, and then laughed, weakly. "I realized," he said. Against his skin, Jimmy could feel Thomas's lips turn up into a smile.

"I made rather a mess," Jimmy said. He could taste flour in his mouth.

"Mmm," Thomas said, sounding uncaring, for once. "I would like to propose a compromise."

"Propose away," Jimmy said, stroking a hand through Thomas's hair.

"You can come and visit me at _work_," Thomas said, "if, when we get _home_, you help me do the chores."

"Mm," Jimmy said, agreeably. "A compromise. I accept."

"Wonderful," Thomas said. "Amazing."

"Yes," Jimmy said, and crooked an arm behind his own head. _I really _am_ amazing,_ Jimmy thought, _at domestic life. _


End file.
